I’m fucked. I’m fucked beyond repair and I’m fucked beyond belief. I’m fucked.

Last night was the beginning of the end. The start that shouldn’t have started. The start that did start. The start that ruined my life again.

Four nights ago, I wrote a letter. Three nights ago, I uncovered the remnants. Two nights ago, I attempted it. Last night, I still existed. Tonight, I’m not sure if I still do.

Anxiety. Depression. Empty.

Tonight, I took my medication. Tonight, it should have worked. Tonight, I had an anxiety attack. Again.

The cold slab of concrete. Pounding. The cold clatter of voices. Whispering. The cold excuse of metal. Piercing. A life, wasted.

My mind was on repeat. The same question circling over and over. What if it had all worked? What if the lock hadn’t turned? What if the fantasy turned into reality? What if. What if. What if. My family would be nothing. My friends would be nothing. I would be nothing. My resonant body would be hollow. My fickle frequencies would be static. My raw thoughts would be nothing but thoughts. “I” would be nothing but a dream.

Fuck. Did I want that? Fuck. Did I need that? Fuck. Did I do that? Fuck.

I wanted to pause. I wanted to fix. I wanted to change.

It was too late. Life didn’t stop for anyone, especially me. I couldn’t fix yesterday, but I could change today.

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